


Drowned Rat

by annagarny



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annagarny/pseuds/annagarny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wet, late night chases are never fun. Written, beta'd edited and posted from VicLockCon 2012</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowned Rat

So, after a very long, very wet chase through some of the less reputable of London's alleys, John finally lost sight of the billowing coat of his "consulting detective" and came to a halt, hands on knees, doubled over and panting to catch his breath. He'd just stepped in another puddle, and this time he was wet to his knees. He was done, he'd had enough and if Sherlock was so determined to catch the culprit then he could do it all on his lonesome. He was just straightening up, breath returning to normal, when his mobile phone stared to ring, but he ignored it - there was a reason he'd made Sherlock's ringtone the theme from Jaws.

He looked around, trying to gauge where he actually was, failing miserably but recognizing a busier road at the end of the street he was stood on. His phone buzzed, a text, but again it was ignored in favor of trying to find a cab and head home. As entertaining as it was chasing criminals through the streets in the middle of the night, unlike his flatmate, John Watson could not survive on less than three hours sleep per night.

He hailed a cab and slid into the backseat, giving the address and settling in, no idea how long the drive back could take and hoping that he had enough cash in his wallet to cover the fare.

>>  
>>>  
>>>>

The following morning, John woke up in his own bed, and after a moment sat bolt upright, mind racing to figure out what the hell was wrong.  
No noises.  
Not a murmur, not a note. Straining his ears, he couldn't even hear Mrs Hudson bustling around, then he remembered, Sunday. She'd be at church, no matter what comments Sherlock made about it she was a devout woman and never missed a service if she could help it.  
That still didn't explain the lack of sulking consulting detective, which would no doubt be Sherlock's current state of being - John had abandoned him during a chase and come home without answering his phone - he'd be lucky to get it of this with a weeks' worth of the silent treatment and intervals of violin at three AM.

But right now, at eight AM, he had woke naturally, and there was no violin to be heard.

He got up and headed downstairs, thinking perhaps that Lestrade had made an early call, asking for assistance, or perhaps Sherlock had spent the night at theYard, helping with evidence, he did that sometimes. John wasn't worried. Not really, not yet. Besides, he still hadn't even checked his phone.

Speaking of... where was his phone? He descended the stairs in bare feet, not bothering with a shirt and came into the empty kitchen, putting the kettle on and reconstructing the night before, trying to remember where he had left his mobile, which had barely stopped buzzing the whole trip back to Baker St.

Not in his jacket.  
Not on the sofa.  
Not on his chair.  
Not on the kitchen table (not that it often made it there - he'd lost a handset six months ago to a corrosive acid of some kind and now knew better than to put anything valuable within reach of Sherlock's 'experiment' space.)  
But then, even after a relatively exhaustive search, he still couldn't locate the thing.

Oh, well, breakfast was more important, right now. 

An hour, two cups of tea, some toast and still no Sherlock later, John heard the front door open and close, and recognized Mrs Hudson's footsteps as she made her way into 221A, shuffling about and boiling her kettle, making preparations for her usual Sunday morning tea.

He settled into his chair and picked up the copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix that he had been trying to read for the better part of a month, with another mug of tea in hand he opened it to his bookmark and began to read.

It wasn't until his stomach grumbled at around two pm, reminding him that it was lunchtime, that he realized that Sherlock was still absent. He wasn't yet concerned, Sherlock had a habit of vanishing for days at a time, though the fact that his phone was still nowhere to be found might be cause for concern. 

The doorbell rang, just as he opened the fridge to find the butter and make himself a sandwich.

He ignored it, content that Mrs Hudson was home and that she'd answer it, though he did scramble for a t-shirt a half minute later when he heard unfamiliar footfalls coming up the stairs.

He'd barely shrugged into it when someone knocked on the doorframe of 221B, and apparently didn't feel the need to wait for an invitation to come in.

"Oh, Greg. Hi." John straightened his t-shirt a little and, after a second glance down, felt his cheeks and ears begin to turn scarlet; the t-shirt he'd picked up was in fact a pale grey one of Sherlock's that the detective usually slept in.

"Yeah, hi." Lestrade gave him a strange look, but John refused to be made to feel and about being in his pajamas at lunchtime on a Sunday, he deserved a break, too, sometimes.   
"What brings you up here?" John asked, stepping into the kitchen to flick the kettle on.  
"Is Sherlock about?"  
"Uh, no, I thought he might be with you, actually. Why? Has he gone missing, again?"  
"In a manner of speaking. He apprehended the suspect last night, handed him over to Donovan with his hands bound by some fence wire, and vanished into the night, muttering about tracking you down."  
"Oh, well, I fell into a puddle and gave up on the chase before we caught up, came home without him. I thought he'd gone with you lot up to the Yard to help with the evidence or something."  
"No, he was coming after you."  
"Oh." John rubbed at the back of his neck as he pulled two mugs out of the cupboard and dropped tea bags into them, waiting for the kettle to boil as he tried to think of an answer for that. "Well, he isn't here, that I know of, though I haven't checked his room, come to think of it."  
Lestrade raised an eyebrow at that, and John sighed.  
"Fine, I'll go check." he left the kettle and mugs behind, heading for Sherlock's room, and opened the door slowly, unsure of what he'd find.

There, sprawled on the bed, still in his suit-coat, jacket and scarf, was a dark-haired Consulting Detective, fast asleep. Jon stared at him for a moment before taking in the rest of the scene - John's own mobile phone was next to Sherlock's on the bedside table, and when he looked at the floor he saw a distinct puddle on the floorboards next to the bed.

He closed the door, quietly, and returned to the kitchen.

"Can I come with you, please? He put himself to bed wet and he's going to be sick when he wakes up; I do not want to suffer through that again."  
"Sorry, Dr Watson, I'm on duty, today. I'm afraid you'll have to deal with an ill Sherlock Holmes on your own." Greg got to his feet, satisfied that his ace in the hole was safe, and moved towards the exit. He was just stepping across the threshold when he stopped, dead, at a noise coming from Sherlock's room.

"John? JOHN!!"  
"Sorry, Doc, I'd love to stay and help..." he bolted, and John briefly considered following him anyway, before another pathetic wine floated out though the door at the end of the hall.  
"Joooooohn....."  
"Damn."


End file.
